From the Fishouse

Children lift tiles from the bathroom. I employ them. I give one a machete.
I give the other a borrowed life. Together we cut cane on the Asian-American mollusk.

Of my fury,
I make Cheeto-straight-A’s.

Of my fury,
I come like a joint popping into place.

Of my fury,
I give you my shark fin. You make a necklace of it. I hate you more.

Of my fury,
I buy electronica.

Of my fury,
A cumulo-wind blows into the dear and blasted soldier wanting to “come clean.”

Of my fury,
A grass Moses.

Of my fury,
I feel into them. Stuffing them into Wonder Woman bracelets and repelling my own bullets.